


shored against my ruins

by postcardmystery



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You okay over there?” he says, on a supply run gone wrong, and Andrea smiles at him, wry, lifts her shotgun, says, “What you looking at me for? Eyes on the enemy, Sergeant Dixon.”</p><p>Daryl laughs a little, letting an arrow fly, says, only half-joking, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. Ain’t I your best soldier, anyways?”</p><p> </p><p>Daryl and Andrea and the little moments that matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shored against my ruins

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for murder, violence, and reference to past abuse.

It’s a cold night, stitches in his arm and a bandanna around his head, his hair a little long, starting to hang in his eyes, and he says, “Ain’t nothin’ out there, girl.”

Andrea smiles, says, “Preaching to me, choir boy? Don’t tell me things I already know, got Rick for that.”

 

 

It’s not just her Daddy’s gun, as Daryl calls it, not any more, no longer just a pistol in her glove compartment, but a shotgun that hangs on her back, heavy and cold, three knives in her belt, shades on, and it’s not just her Daddy’s gun, because one gun is not enough, one knife, one man at her back, and she wears a belt of shotgun shells and shears her hair off with a blunt pair of scissors, looks in the mirror for one long, long moment, then closes her eyes, breathes, grins.

 

 

“Want me to stitch that for you?” she says, and Daryl cocks his head, his fingers tapping a relentless beat on his leg, says, non-committal, “If you want.”

“It’s not about what I want, honey,” says Andrea, snapping off some thread, “but yeah, I  _do_  want.”

“Okay,” he says, pulling up his shirt, his eyes dropping down, and her hands don’t waver over the scars, the scars that are very far from fresh, just pushes the needle in, doesn’t meet his gaze because everyone needs something, and you can still be kind at the end of the world, can still know the right thing to do, and his skin is pinpricked, red, and he’ll have a new scar but he always has a new scar, and her hands are warm and her smile is warm and there’s black thread through his side and his right eyebrow is a slit of blood and a mess of dust and mud, but this scar, it’s a new sort of scar, and.

 

 

He doesn’t stand still because he  _can’t_  stand still, knows you should take life slow, out here, where life is in short supply, but he needs steady hands, to hold a knife, a crossbow, someone else’s life, so he paces and rubs at his thighs and chews on his fingers, a whirlwind captured in sepia, stills only in the seconds before a kill, before that flurry of movement, before blood on his face and guts on his shoes, because if you stop moving you’re dead, and if you’re dead you’re not useful, and he needs,  _needs_ , more than he ever has before, not to be dead, not to be— well.

 

 

“You okay over there?” he says, on a supply run gone wrong, and Andrea smiles at him, wry, lifts her shotgun, says, “What you looking at me for? Eyes on the enemy, Sergeant Dixon.”

Daryl laughs a little, letting an arrow fly, says, only half-joking, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. Ain’t I your best soldier, anyways?”

Andrea slings her shotgun over her shoulder, picks up her axe, winks, and that’s his only answer.

 

 

It’s a slow way to die, this life, slow until it’s not, and she knows that, felt her sister’s blood run hot over her fingers,  _knows_ , but it turns out that you still love your friends, your family, even at the end of the world, even if you only  _met_  them at the end of the world, and Carol is still kind and Lori is still trying to make things better and Glenn is still whipsmart, and Daryl, Daryl is the best back-up money can’t buy, his narrowed eyes always on her back, his fingers always hovering around a crossbow trigger, and it’s not  _in_  love, but it’s love, desperate and painful and all they have, and it can be a slow way to die, but she’s going to live it, going to take it slow, because even if they don’t have a chance they still have this, still have each other.

 

 

“Yes?” she says, the question short and impatient around the edges, and he shrugs, says, “I ain’t tellin’ ya what to do, but there’s somethin’ not right ‘bout him, is all.”

“I know,” says Andrea, her voice breaking on the last syllable, because the more she learns the more it hurts, the more she knows that nothing was  _ever_  right with Shane, and there’s the ghost of his fingers on her hips and Daryl is looking at her, not still, never still, but just  _waiting_ , in that way of his, and she sighs, says, not a question, “But we all make mistakes, don’t we.”

The flinch is tiny but it’s there, a few fingers flickering over a stomach streaked with scars, and he says, “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

 

 

He kills Shane because it’s about more than unity, more than love, because Shane’s eyes weren’t dark, just blank, and he could’ve been honest, could’ve done it out in the open, but then it would be a burden for all of them to carry, and they’re carrying enough, so he does it, makes it look like an accident, Shane already bit, a stray crossbow bolt to the neck, besides, things no-one can question, and he carries it, because they’ve all got enough to carry, because he’s had the practice, and if it was Shane’s blood in his mouth, that metal taste behind the back of his teeth, and a shallow cut to his ribs that no one ever sees, that he stitches himself in the dark, in silence and his teeth sliding into his lower lip, a penance he doesn’t feel, then it’s the price you pay, and he’s paid higher, lost more.

 

 

“Could teach you,” Daryl says, cleaning one of his arrows, and Andrea palms the handle of her axe, ruffles his hair, (a touch he still leans into and away from, all at once,  _old habits_ ), says, “You’ve already taught me enough, Dixon, but thanks, anyway.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me,” says Daryl, but holds her gaze as she smiles, even if it’s just for a second, even if it’s just because he can’t  _not_.

“Yet, I am,” says Andrea, and he smiles, too, looks away, knows she still saw him.


End file.
